Page 91 of Snowman

I pressed it again.

A faint beep, barely a sound.

Tears blurred the screen. My breath hitched as I jabbed at the number, again and again, the same response each time.

He wasn't here.

Julia crouched next to me, her voice low as she spoke. "Bree, stop. Leave him alone. He doesn't want—"

"No!" I cut her off, clutching the phone tighter. "He'll answer. He has to."

My voice cracked, and I pressed the number again.

Julia sighed, pulling the phone from my hands, standing up as I screamed. My voice felt like it was tearing me apart from the inside, spilling out into the room where no one could help.

I slumped forward, my body shaking. I curled my fingers on the floor, the pain swept me under again.

He was gone.

It wasn't my phone.

He wasn't her number one.

He wasn't mine anymore, either.

He left...me.

TWENTY NINE

BREE

November, 2019

"Bree!"

The shout pulled me from my thoughts. I looked up, pushing my blonde hair off my shoulder as I peered around the coffee machine. My coworker Nea was wrestling with a basket full of coffee bean bags, having wrapped her arms around it as if it weighed a ton. Her voice pitches higher with urgency as she yells again, "Bree! A little help here?"

I hurried over, sliding around the counter. Her face was scrunched with effort, and the basket wobbled precariously in her grip. Before she could cry out again, I grabbed one side. Together, we wrestled it onto the bar. It hit the surface with adull thud, and Nea let out an exaggerated groan, her hands flying to her hips as she stood straight.

"You know," I teased, brushing my hands off, "you could've asked for help earlier."

"It's six in the morning," she said, fighting off a yawn. "I'm half-asleep."

"Clearly," I said, raising an eyebrow.

She gave me a saucy wink. "Besides, I forgot you were here."

"Nea," I laughed, shaking my head as I walked back to the coffee machine. "Sometimes I swear you've got early-onset dementia."

She laughed loudly and uninhibitedly, the kind of laugh that could wake the birds. She tapped the side of her head with mock seriousness. "You're probably right. I should check on my last two brain cells before they die."

I tossed a cleaning cloth at her, smirking. "Oh, stop it."

The loud tick of the clock announced six a.m. sharp. The sun had not been bold enough yet to cast its light upon us, and the café was wrapped in the dark. This was my haven-mornings like this. All the nightmares that haunted my nights felt so small under the glowing lights of this warm café. And when sleep at least decided to be a foe, I knew I would be in peace here.

The jingle above the door yanked me back to the here and now. Cold air swirled in, touching my skin, and on its heels came the scent of winter: sharp, clear cold and the earthly, homelike smell of wood.

I turned toward the sound of the door, my gaze rising from the counter to the man who'd just walked in. A black coat clung to the lines of his tall frame. The quiet intensity of him came with him into the air, like a whispered promise, as he turned toward me. Café light caught against his face, and my breath hitched. His eyes as icy as the frost locked onto mine, piercing, freezingme to a spot. His gaze was sharp, hard to forget, and my heart stumbled in my chest as recognition struck.

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